Hell Looks So Good On You
by wearecrossroads
Summary: It's the first day of school and Quinn's new look is driving Santana insane.


**A/N**: Hi! I interrupt your regularly scheduled programming of NWTTAL to bring you this indulgent little one-shot. I was out of town in NY and Chicago most of this week, so I didn't get the chance to work on NWTTAL. But between all the planes and trains and other automobiles, I was (naturally) inspired to write some porn. I blame Quinn and her swag.

M is for porn, kids. :)

* * *

><p>The first thought that enters Santana's mind when that flurry of blonde and pink and unlaced combat boots approaches her on the first day of school is, <em>lord Jesus, help me make it through the day<em>. The second thought is that this fucking cheap school needs to pay up for better air conditioning because it suddenly got a million degrees hotter in here.

Quinn is strutting her way down the hall, shoulders squared, kohl-rimmed eyes hooded, and as confident in her chains and hell-appreciation as she ever was in that Cheerios uniform.

As if the morning after hair wasn't enough to do Santana in.

She feels her throat go dry.

Thankfully for Santana's hormones, punk rock Barbie doesn't stop in front of her where she's standing at her locker, but just breezes right on by.

But of course, Quinn doesn't leave without first completely messing with her, the vixen. She tips her chin, captures Santana's gaze, and curves her lips at her in a playful little smirk. It's private and knowing – that perfectly paradoxical combination of shy and cocky that only Quinn Fabray can pull off. And it's one giant tease.

Santana's lips part in shock.

_That little..._

Before Santana can do anything in response, Quinn has glanced away again, continuing on her merrily badass way down the hall, garnering stares all around like the true high school royalty she is.

Santana is slightly outraged. Nobody, not even Quinn, fucks with her (and makes her question her entire worldview). The fact that she has trouble keeping her eyes off of her slim hips as she sways off is even more deeply concerning.

"_Santana_," someone interrupts her train of thought.

She blinks, then looks up at her intruder. It's Puck. He's standing at his locker, one down from hers, and smirking at her.

"What does she think she's doing?" Santana demands. She tugs her locker door open violently.

Puck glances back at Quinn's retreating figure and shrugs.

"''_Devil may care'_ attitude? Edgy but stylish clothing? I'd say she was trying to get in my pants. I'll be honest, if I wasn't currently hooking up with my plus size princess, I'd hit it," Puck says loftily. Then he furrows his brow and adds, "Again."

Santana feels something bordering on irritation flood her veins. She doesn't bother hiding her glare.

"Hey, wandering juvie," she snaps. "If you think for one second that Quinn would ever want on that again, drunk or sober, you're even more stupid than I thought."

Puck's eyebrows shoot up.

"Whoa," he says. "It was a joke. Do you get off on tearing people down or something?"

"Yup," Santana responds. She tries to subdue her sudden protectiveness, turning back to her locker and tugging her enormous Lit textbook out. "All hot and bothered," she bites.

Puck laughs, annoyingly, and shuts his locker. He steps closer to her. It makes her skin crawl.

"If the Puckasaurus is on the money," he says, "which I pretty much always am, it looks like you've found yourself new lezzie eyecandy in this school."

Santana's stomach twists uncomfortably, and she can't help but glance around the hallway. _Dammit_. Automatic reaction.

"Quit your blathering, Puckerman," she hisses. "And don't pretend like you know shit."

Puck raises his hands defensively, but he has a cocky grin on his face.

"And besides," Santana continues, "being assigned a locker near mine doesn't give you permission to make my ears bleed."

Rather than wait for a response from the annoying prick, Santana slams her locker door shut and stalks down the hall toward homeroom.

Puck laughs from behind her.

"Touchy subject?" he calls.

"Suck my dick," she yells over her shoulder.

* * *

><p>Second period, Quinn strolls into class twenty minutes late. Santana would be shocked if she wasn't too busy being exasperated that in one fell swoop and a bottle of hair dye, Quinn has managed to steal her bad girl rep. Also, admiring the black bandana that Quinn has added to her getup.<p>

Quinn doesn't even hand in a late slip. She just heads toward the back of the classroom.

"Miss Fabray," their teacher, Mrs. Dodd, says warningly, making Quinn stop in her tracks.

The eye-roll that she gives before she turns around to face the teacher is so downright 100% certified bitch-grade that Santana can't help but appreciate. She fidgets in her seat, trying to quell the sudden heat that fills her, refusing to accept that it's concentrated between her legs.

"Yes?" Quinn asks Mrs. Dodd silkily.

Mrs. Dodd frowns. "Please explain why you just walked into my classroom, twenty-three minutes late—and without a note, no less."

Quinn smirks down at the floor for a second before she looks up at the teacher again. "No, I'd rather not," she says. "I get that you must not have a life, what with the recent divorce and the dead-end job, but it's just rude to stick your nose in mine."

Everyone in the classroom, including Santana's previously unflappable self and poor Mrs. Dodd, gapes.

Quinn lifts her chin defiantly.

Mrs. Dodd seems to be at a loss for words. And who wouldn't be? Quinn fucking Fabray, prior goody two shoes and suck-up extraordinaire, just punched authority in the face. And hard.

Mrs. Dodd's mouth opens and closes a few times before she finally hisses: "_Detention_."

Quinn doesn't even flinch. She shrugs, says, "Fine," then turns back toward the desks. She plops down on the empty chair at Santana's table.

Santana doesn't dare speak, but she takes the proximity as an opportunity to scribble out a note. It says: _Are you high?_

She nudges Quinn's knee with her own and passes the slip of paper to her underneath the table.

Quinn takes her sweet time collecting the note from Santana's hand, brushing their fingers together for far longer than necessary. The soft contact of skin on skin is almost too tempting.

Santana clutches her hands in her lap and intently watches Quinn's dainty fingers, decked out with black-painted nails, as they unfold the slip of paper.

Quinn reads the message, then glances up at Santana with a little half-smile, eyes gleaming. And then, she winks devilishly at her.

Santana thinks she might be a little bit in love.

She blinks, then kicks herself for the blasphemous, inappropriate thought.

Still, it doesn't stop her blood from pumping a little bit harder through her veins when she looks over at Quinn. At the way her shirt, all loose, falls over her chest. And at the disarray of hair that Santana is almost positive wasn't brushed this morning, which makes her think of what Quinn was doing last night, which... She needs to stop.

After a while, Quinn leans into Santana, shoulder resting warmly against hers.

"You could at least try to hide your leering," she whispers, close to her ear.

"Only if you try to hide that you're playing me," Santana whispers back instantly.

Quinn scoffs quietly, and for just a fleeting instant, too fast for anyone else to notice, her lips meet Santana's bare shoulder. Then she's gone again.

"_Asshole_," Santana hisses.

* * *

><p>Lunch is a relatively glee club affair, in that they bust their butts singing for the school and get slapped in the face with edibles in return.<p>

Santana manages to avoid the worst of it, because her best friend is Brittany Pierce, who taught her a thing or two about coordination, but the whole thing still makes her blood boil. Regardless of how pathetic these glee kids may be, they're her friends, and the only ones in this school she feels any sort of affinity toward—even Berry, despite the fact that she still generally makes Santana want to punch her nose in. So when they get picked on, Santana feels her internal mother hen come out. Maybe it's her Hispanic roots, she doesn't know, or care enough to overthink it.

She's also resentful of the fact that Quinn is missing out on all of this, on account of that detention she earned herself earlier. Not that she misses her presence or anything. A small part of Santana is trying to figure out why exactly Quinn seems to be on a mission to trailblaze through this school. Mainly, though, Santana has been busy trying to dampen this raging attraction she's had to deal with all day. _Hell is so hot right now_. Right. More like hell is a teasing fucking bitch.

* * *

><p>Santana skips fifth period because, well, she can. And because she hates biology. Besides, the first day of school is a load of crock anyway. It's mainly just pointless drivel where the teachers go on about how <em>different <em>things will be this year, deluding themselves into thinking that is year will be better, that they'll be better teachers, get better lives. Santana would rather pass on the pathetic monotony. Frankly, it's depressing.

She stands in the girls' restroom, the one on the third floor that nobody ever comes into because it's too far from the classrooms, and re-applies her lip gloss.

She smacks her lips together and shoves the tube of gloss back into her backpack. When she looks in the mirror again, she notices someone else in the restroom with her.

"Hey," Quinn says.

Santana spins around, startled. "Fuck, Q, is stealth on your list of new talents too?"

Quinn giggles openly.

Santana's heart is already pounding from the little scare, so the laugh only serves to kick it into overdrive. In that moment, it doesn't matter whether Quinn is wearing leather wristbands, or a Cheerios uniform, or fucking rags, she's just plain _her_, and Santana is struck by a rush of affection.

"You're beautiful," her mouth says before her brain has a chance to filter. Fuck. She feels a flush start in her cheeks, but doesn't dare look away. Santana's not one to step down.

At the words, Quinn sobers up almost immediately. Her eyes are already dark enough from the intense eye make-up, but they seem to grow darker.

"You..." Quinn says, her voice suddenly lower, "are such a tease."

Before Santana has the chance to respond, Quinn jerks her head toward one of the stalls and commands: "Get in there."

For a fleeting second, Santana's pride makes her consider acting like she's offended at the implication. But who is she kidding? She gets her ass in there.

As soon as it slams shut behind them, Quinn shoves her against the stall door.

"I've waited all day to do this," she says, and then she kisses her.

"Mmmph," Santana manages. She's disoriented for a few seconds, thrown by the words and Quinn's sudden forwardness, and like, Quinn's fucking _lips _on_ hers_. But then her hands move to Quinn's hips automatically.

She drags Quinn closer and returns the kiss, lips moving quickly and firmly against Quinn's. She moves a hand up to grasp the back of Quinn's neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair there. Santana is eager, almost urgently so, to taste her. Not as eager as Quinn herself, apparently, who runs her tongue along Santana's lower lip immodestly.

Santana parts her lips for Quinn, feeling a whimper in the back of her throat that she doesn't bother suppressing. If Quinn is going to be as forward as to shove her into a bathroom stall and kiss her, Santana certainly isn't going to hold back.

Quinn's fingers dig into her upper arm, pressing it against the stall door, and her other hand comes up to cup Santana's jaw as she kisses her, holding her firmly in place, cementing the fact that she's the one in control here. The action makes Santana dizzy with need, and her hips twitch forward instinctively.

"What were you thinking?" Quinn asks her. She pushes her own hips against Santana's almost painfully, bone on bone, to still her. "With that little Cheerios skirt and those bedroom eyes you were flashing my way?"

"All unintentional," Santana rasps, truthfully, whimpering again Quinn kisses a trail down to the sensitive spot on her jaw. "You, on the other hand, clearly knew exactly what you were doing to me. How does your ass look so good in my skirt?" she adds. She tugs on Quinn's hair then runs her hand down her back and over said ass, pressing lightly.

Quinn just whines in response, pressing all the way against Santana, her necklaces clinking between them.

Santana groans. _Fuck_. Quinn feels fucking phenomenal. Mostly, she's all lean muscle everywhere, not unlike Santana herself, but she's soft in all the right places. Like her tits, which, despite the layers of clothing, feel like downright sweet torture as they rub against Santana's.

Also, Santana notices distantly, she smells distinctly like reefer.

"So you're smoking up, now?" she gasps as Quinn goes to work on her neck next. Smoking up, cutting class, making out with cheerleaders in the bathroom; Quinn's just a real life rebel now. Santana is more than impressed. That much is clear.

"I'm not that big of an idiot," Quinn responds hotly against Santana's skin. "I want to graduate."

"Not what it sounded like when you mouthed off to poor Mrs. Dodd in calc earlier."

"Couldn't help it," Quinn breathes, moving back up to graze her mouth against Santana's. "I just _fucking_ _hate math_."

Santana can't stop her body from shivering in response to Quinn's cursing, to how her lips curve around the dirty word.

"So scandalous," she manages to say teasingly.

Quinn has clearly had enough of this conversation, because she leans in and kisses Santana again, more roughly this time, as if to say '_shut up'_.

She trails her fingers lightly over Santana's collarbone, making her skin buzz beneath the touch, and then moves lower, grazing a blunt fingernail over Santana's breast.

Santana moans, unconsciously pressing forward, needing more, and Quinn doesn't deny her. She cups Santana's breast in her hand and rubs her thumb right over her nipple, like she knows exactly where to touch to make Santana fall apart.

Santana's too busy gasping and writhing under the touch to think of just _why_ Quinn knows.

The pressure of Quinn's fingers over the fabric of her uniform top is torturous, enough but not quite, like she's teetering on the edge. It makes Santana desperate for Quinn's fingers on her skin, or better yet, Quinn's _mouth_ on her skin.

The thought alone makes her practically faint with arousal, and she drops her head back against the door.

"_Quinn_," she moans.

Quinn follows Santana's lips, kissing her again like she can't stop, licking into her mouth in a way that's far too filthy to be acceptable. She rubs at Santana's nipple again and Santana feels the touch all over, feels it pool low in her belly. It makes her acutely aware of the throbbing in her underwear and the wetness starting to rub slickly between her thighs every time she manages to fidget underneath Quinn's iron grasp.

She tries her best to keep up with Quinn's ardent kisses, pressing her hand into Quinn's lower back to try and get her even closer, but she's so fucking turned on and overwhelmed by the heat between them that it's making her body slow and her head clouded.

Besides, she's clearly the one being ravished here. And she's strangely okay with that. For once in her life, Santana doesn't feel the need to gain the upper hand, and she can't tell if that's just because she's been on edge all day or if it's because this is _Quinn_. A small voice in her head tells her that it's the latter—that Quinn, with the composure, commanding presence, and wit to challenge Santana's own, is the only one who could do this to her. How did it take a bit of hair dye and black clothing for her to realize that?

"Santana," Quinn growls, interrupting her train of thought. "Are you seriously distracted right now?"

As if to remind Santana that the focus should be on her and her alone, she grabs the back of her thigh and tugs, hard, until she gets Santana's leg around her waist. Then, she grinds her own thigh right up against Santana's core.

"_Fuck_," Santana cries out. "Christ, Quinn." The oxygen in her lungs disappears—it just… up and goes—and she has to take in big gasps to try and replace it. She pushes her hips forward, seeking more pressure from Quinn's leg, seeking any sort of friction.

Quinn grunts and Santana feels her hips twitch against her own.

"I can feel… You're so wet," Quinn mumbles against Santana's cheek, grinding into her again.

Santana whines. "You fucking did this to me. You…" she trails off, losing the thought. "I need more, Q."

Quinn apparently doesn't respond to orders, because rather than heed her request, she uses her hand to tip Santana's chin back toward her and she kisses her again.

"Sorry," Quinn says, pulling away, cheeks growing red. "It's just that your mouth drives me crazy." Her voice is more soft, some of the roughness from earlier gone.

Santana feels her heart pound heavily in her chest.

Then Quinn reaches under Santana's skirt and tugs her soaked panties down, and her heart forgets to pound entirely.

"Your everything drives me crazy," she gasps.

Quinn giggles softly. She pulls the panties as far as they'll go, not too far, given Santana's position, but far enough so that she can touch her.

Santana's breath catches in her chest in anticipation, but the touch she needs so badly doesn't come. Instead, Quinn runs her fingers slowly and lightly up the side of Santana's thigh and rubs at the wetness that has collected there. Then her fingertips graze Santana's slick outer lips.

Santana moans.

Quinn's eyes grow dark.

"You're even wetter than I am," she breathes, face flushed.

The implication is incredibly sexy.

"_Jesus_," Santana responds, the thought of Quinn all hot and ready for her making her core throb almost painfully. She wants to feel it, wants Quinn to press and rub against Santana until they both come apart, but she also knows that right now isn't the time or place. So, selfishly, she says:

"Touch me already."

"But I thought you liked foreplay," Quinn responds playfully.

"This whole goddamn day has been foreplay," Santana snaps.

Quinn pulls away slightly and smirks like the devil that she is, and Santana is downright pathetic for panicking at the loss of contact.

_Cool it, Lopez, you aren't that desperate to be touched_, her brain says.

"Fuck me," her traitorous mouth says, entirely ruining any semblance of cool she had left.

Quinn grins brightly and then says: "Okay." She presses two fingers, hard, right over Santana's clit.

The pressure is exactly where Santana wanted it, and she throws her head back and fucking _sobs_.

"Yes," she gasps, writhing when Quinn circles her fingertips around her sensitive clit, flicking her fingers over it every now and then.

"Is that good?" Quinn asks, her free hand sliding under Santana's top, shoving it up, fingers warm and electric against Santana's already hypersensitive skin.

Santana knows Quinn knows it's good, so she doesn't bother replying. She just whimpers and grinds against Quinn's deft fingers, feeling the incredible pressure starting to build inside of her.

Quinn's other hand toys with the underwire of Santana's bra, running along the edge before she shoves it up and out of the way and palms Santana's breast.

"Oh god, Quinn, fuck," Santana moans, pressing into the warm touch, feeling her nipple harden instantly under Quinn's thumb, growing even more sensitive and responsive to the softness of Quinn's skin on hers.

Right when she's starting to become frustrated again, like she's on the edge of something, like she needs more—Quinn reads her fucking mind again. She slides her fingers down from Santana's clit and runs them over her entrance. Her touch slips a little there, from how ridiculously, embarrassingly wet Santana has gotten, but Quinn doesn't miss a beat, just thrusts two fingers up inside her.

Santana has to bite down on her bottom lip to keep from crying out, but Quinn moans and her body shudders like she's the one being touched.

"You're so tight, so warm, Santana," Quinn says, voice low and throaty and almost reverent, before she leans in to capture her lips in a messy, uncoordinated kiss. Rather than pump her fingers in and out of Santana, she slides them deeper inside and crooks them slightly so that her fingertips are rubbing firmly and intimately against Santana's sensitive upper walls. All Santana can do is gasp for breath between kisses, squeeze her eyes shut, and try to control her urge to whine.

Quinn is proving to be…

Just… _what_, Santana thinks incoherently. Quinn is fucking unbelievable.

As if to give her even more proof, Quinn rubs her thumb near Santana's entrance, collecting the wetness there, and then slides it back up to her clit. Like a fucking pro.

Santana is about to fall apart. She's having a hard time breathing. The sensation from Quinn's fingers inside her, against her clit, rubbing over her nipple, is almost too much to take. She feels her orgasm build and her wetness grow, sliding slickly around Quinn's fingers. She drops her head back against the door, unable to keep up with the kiss.

"_Q_," Santana begs. She doesn't know for what.

"Come on," Quinn rasps. She rubs over Santana's clit harder and presses an open-mouthed kiss to her jaw, then licks the skin there.

"Fuck," Santana sobs, the wave of pleasure deep inside quickly cresting. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. _Quinn_."

Her orgasm hits her, hard—surprisingly hard—and she can't stop the cry that falls from her lips as she feels her body tremble almost violently in response. Her walls throb wetly, achingly around Quinn's fingers, which don't stop moving inside Santana, rubbing over the sensitive spot there. She keeps doing this until the very last of Santana's shudders.

"Oh god," is all Santana can manage to gasp after a few moments, when she's finally found her voice again. She blinks her eyes open and immediately meets Quinn's gaze.

Quinn stares back, eyes clouded over with what Santana recognizes as intense arousal, before she slowly and carefully slides her fingers out of her. Santana whimpers at the sensation, lowering her leg.

She feels weak and spent, her limbs loose, so she's grateful that Quinn is considerate enough to take care of her. She pulls up and fixes Santana's panties, and then her bra and top, her touch almost tender. Then she cups Santana's face with both hands and kisses her, deep and soft and wet, for a few long seconds. The kiss is intimate, but Santana can also feel her own wetness on the fingers of Quinn's right hand, right against her cheek, and it's just so downright _dirty_ that she can't suppress another moan.

Quinn pulls away, looking pleased with herself.

Santana is at a loss for words for what feels like the first time in her life. She just stares at Quinn for several moments before she finally says:

"Hell looks so good on you."

Quinn giggles and looks away, like she's bashful or something. Santana knows better. She pushes herself off the stall door, testing her shaky legs. Quinn really did a number on her.

"Where'd you get so good at that?" she asks, teasing.

Quinn smiles slyly, running her hands through her hair in a futile attempt to tame the messy strands.

"Just this girl I know," she says, shrugging. "She's a pretty enthusiastic teacher. I think you know her, too. She's pretty amazing."

Santana smirks wickedly.

Quinn smiles back, but her eyes are still clouded over, and just then, she reaches down and presses a palm against herself, biting down on her lip.

Santana feels like a complete, selfish dick.

"Come here," she growls, but Quinn stops her, lifting up a hand.

"As much as I'd love to—you have no idea," she says, "I'm pretty sure I'm late to class. Again. And Principal Figgins threatened to suspend me."

Santana snorts. "I don't know how I like this whole you being a bigger badass than I am thing."

"Bigger than you? Never."

Santana appreciates the ego-stroking.

"My place later, then?" she asks, fisting her hand in Quinn's shirt and tugging her close. "I'll return the favor. Make you scream."

Quinn eyes go dark, but she smirks. "Are you sure I didn't scare off your mom the last time?"

"No, I'm not," Santana says. "Actually, I'm pretty sure she thinks you're possessed. You're crazy loud."

"That Quinn girl," Quinn says mockingly. "Used to be so _nice_."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Oh, please, Fabray. In what universe were you ever nice?"

Quinn doesn't even look offended at the jab. She leans in to kiss Santana.

"I'll come by later. I skipped detention. Oops," she says with absolutely no remorse. "So they're keeping me after school."

"Jesus, Quinn, get out of here before your sassitude gets me all worked up again."

"Fine," Quinn laughs.

Santana kisses her one last time.

"Later, babe."


End file.
